


Diablo: Call to the Fog

by Knightheart777



Category: Diablo (Video Game), Diablo III
Genre: Adventure, Dark, Gen, OC, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-04-07 08:08:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14076606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knightheart777/pseuds/Knightheart777
Summary: Five heroes, five walks of life, all haunted by one dream. Now that the horror of Malthael and his Angels of Death have been slain, what terrors--new or old--may seek to swallow the lands of Sanctuary into the darkness? A prelude to the nightmares to come deep within the mountains of Khanduras, every hero's journey begins with a call to adventure.A call to the fog...





	1. Act I: The Wizard

  
ACT I: THE WIZARD

            The Yshari Sanctum seemed to shake with their bitter shouting. The vaulted, garishly painted Great Hall was empty—unusual for the home of the last remnants of the Mages Clans—save for two robed figures. The smaller one, dressed in ornate battlemage attire of white and purple robes, golden armor, and elaborate designs, thrust one sharp, metal clad finger towards the other figure.

            “I won’t stand here and be told what to do by you anymore, old man!” The boy’s face was youthful, with soft features. A thin nose flared in arrogant rage, deep violet eyes flickering with barely-contained magical energies. A neatly trimmed head of auburn hair hung about the boy’s ears in a series of carefully maintained braids, each ending in a violet bead.

            The other, more austerely dressed mage glowered down at the young man from beneath a heavy hood. His lips curled into a sneer just above a long, trimmed silver beard; “Nor will I, or any of us, stoop so low as to train an arrogant _wizard_ such as you, Jesrith!”

            Jesrith’s lips pulled themselves into a haughty smirk. The word was dirty to their kind, but to him, it was a moniker proving his success. “I don’t need any of you,” he said, voice dripping with venom. “You sorcerers are relics, fearful of what real power is. I’ve learned all I need from your little ‘sanctum,’ and now I’ll be moving on.” With that, the newly crowned wizard turned on his heels, sauntering out of the Great Hall, the clatter of his metal sabatons echoing throughout the room like knives stabbing through the silence.

            Standing at the ancient door leading out into the bustling cacophony of Caldeum, Jesrith stopped, resting his long, thin fingers against the door’s cool, stony surface. He relished the last look he had of his former master, his former home, and his former prison. Awash in the freedom, he cast open the sanctum’s door, and entered the sweltering heat of the midday sun. That was all the Yshari were now: dust and relics.

            Out there in Caldeum, life moved without pausing to consider the arcane secrets so selfishly guarded by the mages. Caldeum: Jewel of the East. She rose out of the Kehjistani deserts like a glittering mirage, her turquois-topped buildings arching upwards to kiss the heavens themselves. The people that milled about this section of the city were befitting of the city’s grand, garish spectacle. Each one was dressed in brightly-colored robes, many carrying the seal of the Trade Consortium upon their lapel as they hurried like a rushing sea of golden blood that thrummed in the city’s veins.

            The sound of the door sweeping open drew pause from the crowd. Jesrith stepped among their ranks like he were the Emperor himself, the sea of stunned faces parting as travelers and merchants ceded ground to the wizard. A thin, smug grin etched its way across the boy’s features. With a snap of his fingers, the mage shimmered away in a blinking, arcane light, only to reappear deeper among the crowd. Those closest to his arrival leapt back, a woman gasping and retreating backwards from the wizard. It was almost intoxicating. Jesrith continued to blink further into the throng, until all that remained of his coming were hushed whispers and hurried steps.

            Even at his determined pace, it took hours to fully cross the city, the wizard mantling staircase after staircase. The bustling liveliness of the Trade Center soon gave way to hovels and ruined streetways where rubble—not merchants—barred the wizard’s progress. The distance and the silence cut through the boy’s shell of arrogance, piercing at his heart with a biting chill. He swallowed the lump in his throat, forcing himself to continue on, the buildings and stairs this high up were showing the wear of sand and wind. Good signs.

            But no wearing down of time could mask the horrors that had nearly claimed the city. Jesrith had been safe in the Sanctum when the dark angels descended from the blackened sky. He’d been sheltered from the Reaper’s terror, but he had seen its aftermath. Jesrith upped his pace again, forcing himself to focus on the clipping of his armored heels against the pavestones, relishing as the harsh sound gave way to the gentle crunch of fine sand. Up above Caldeum, on the windswept escarpments bordering valley, one could find some measure of peace in the calmness. Here, it was natural.

            It wasn’t far outside the city’s grasp that the wizard first spotted the twinkling campfires out in the distance. Evening was rapidly setting into night, and the distant caravan was framed by a sky of fiery oranges and majestic purples, the first of the stars burning into life against a backdrop of far-off, wispy clouds. Jesrith smiled to himself, warmly, unable to stop the saccharine heat that bubbled up in his chest, nor the way his determined walk broke out into a run. He was home.

            “That wasn’t the wisest way to leave the Sanctum.” Jesrith’s mother Azilia sat up straighter, pushing her back off the side of her wagon. She was a plump woman, dark skinned with luxurious, equally dark hair that hung about her weathered face and shoulders in innumerable curls. She tugged at the hem of her heavy dress, pulling the orange-trimmed maroon fabric over her bare feet. Her son sat across from her on the wide violet rug, the glare of the sun’s dying light behind him curtailed by the likewise violet awning that flapped in the evening’s light breeze.

            Jesrith set the smooth line of his jaw, one claw-covered fingertip quietly tap-tapping at the gold-trim of an ebony sabaton. His shoulders sagged, the once proud wizard’s head hanging; “It’s not as if I plan to go back,” he muttered.

            Azilia shook her head, a deep sigh escaping her hefty bosom. “Child,” she began again, reaching across the way to pull the young boy closer, “you cannot rage against the storm forever.” She wound a hand around the boy’s head, using it to pull his head against her shoulder, the pair silent as they watched oranges bleed into blues into night’s black countenance. “Sooner or later you’re going to have to learn to respect your elders.”

            Jesrith’s bright eyes looked away, his frown deepening. “It wasn’t _solely_ about that,” he began, pausing.

            Azilia turned her head to face her son, her brow perked. “The visions again?” Jesrith nodded against her, setting the beads that ended his braids to gently clinking against one another.

            “I hate them,” the wizard spit, his soft voice impetuous.

            Azilia firmly, yet lightly rapped the top of her son’s head with her free hand’s knuckles. “Foolish boy,” she scolded, “you are Vecin. The Allmother gives us this gifts for a reason.” Her frown only deepened at the sensation of her son squirming at the mere mention of the goddess. She was prepared to get through that skull, though, as she raised her knuckles for another assault.

            But the boy relaxed. His expression when he turned back towards his mother was drained. She always saw his father in him—light, soft skin and auburn hair—but the sadness in his Vecin eyes was like a dagger in the woman’s heart. “What should I do?” Jesrith asked, his voice defeated, empty.

            The hand raised in frustration reached down to sit the wizard up. Azilia sat Jesrith up straight, looking him face to face, eye to eye. “Tonight, you will rest here,” she said firmly. She began to stand, dusting herself off as she set about to retrieve the pillows scattered about her sitting rug. “And in the morning you will go, just as the dream tells you to.”

            “Why go across the world because of a dream?” the wizard snipped.

            Azilia smirked, for a moment her own features mimicking her son’s usual expression. “It’s not like you can go back to Caldeum.” The matter ended there, and the family turned to retire within the Vecin woman’s wagon.


	2. Act 2: The Hunter

Diablo: Call TO THE FOG  
AcT 1I: THE Hunter

            Not all demons come from the Burning Hells.

            The cure was always the same.

            Westmarch, City of the Light, looked more like a smoldering battlefield than a jewel of humanity. Ruined houses and shops sat in crumpled heaps, while all that remained of even the most elaborate and decadent of noble manors were little more than blackened frames reaching up into the air like skeletal fingers. The city was haunted by the Reapers and their deadly craft.

            Corrin was the only traveler this night, the crunch of his leather boots against broken timbers and upturned pavestones unnaturally loud in this once-proud graveyard. Thunder rumbled in the far distance, and a thin, cold drizzle added an otherworldly sheen to every surface. The smallest light from a lantern cast shadows every which way, and a lesser man might have jumped at the sudden, shifting shapes.

            Corrin was no ordinary man. The burning orange of his eyes and the silver cross etched into his thick armguard were proof enough of that. The demon hunter narrowed his eyes, ruminating on the emptiness before him. Rain sends the rats scurrying, he thought. He made a quick, compulsive check of his gear—handbow loaded, sword at his side—as he forced himself to maintain a steady, deliberate pace down the ruined street. The hunt was nearing its close, and anticipation ate away at his patience.

            Flexing his right hand, Corrin balled it into a fist, working the leather of his glove. It was thicker than he was used to, more of a hawker’s trapping than that of his own craft, but it would serve well enough. With his other, free hand, the demon hunter reached into his close-fitting jerkin, feeling the comforting weight of the small vial that hung around his neck by a thin metal band. Up ahead his preternatural eyes spotted the lights, his ears pricked at the sounds of jovial laughter and heartfelt music. It was time.

            _The Last Gasp_ was one of the first buildings to reappear in this section of the city, once the far-flung refugees returned to the wreckage of their city. Smoke-smudged windows and a half-rotted door bade entrance to only the most depraved and seedy elements of this new Westmarch. Corrin strode in comfortably.

            The patrons were well enough in their cups to not pay him any heed, which suited Corrin fine. Boots knocking against the creaking floorboards—many of which had yet to be replaced, little more than singed planks—towards the inn’s counter. The barkeep was a massive man; swarthy, widely-built, with small eyes sunken into a broad face. He was busy drying off a wooden mug, though he paused at this new patron’s arrival, pursing chapped lips underneath a thick, graying mustache.

            “Not from around here,” the barkeep said in a throaty grumble. It was more of a statement than a question. Yet even with his size and presence, the man still couldn’t keep the hairs on his neck from raising when Corrin looked him in the eye with his own burning gaze.

            “No,” the demon hunter said flatly. His own gaze shifted away from the counter and the aging barkeep, across the torch-lit room to the resting area. A number of seedy individuals lounged about in old, soot-stained chairs and couches, listening to the playing of a thin, gaunt bard as he strummed away on his lute.

            The barkeep followed the young hunter’s unnatural eyes. He set the mug down with a heavy _thud_ , drawing Corrin’s attention back to him. “Don’t go starting trouble in my bar, or I’ll throw your arse out like rotten meat,” he warned.

            Corrin wasn’t paying him full mind. He’d expected a warning like that. A way for the barkeep to maintain his appearances. Couldn’t let the patrons think that he was someone they could walk over. The demon hunter pushed away from the counter, eyes settling on a single individual as he stalked towards closer to the drunken group across the way. The barkeep watched him with a flustered, tired look in his old eyes.

            The hunter neared his prey, his heart beating faster and faster. The moment of the confrontation was close, but not this instant. Corrin slid into an empty seat beside his target, the ruined chair groaning under his weight. The hunter wrapped his arms across his chest, kept his head down; better to play the part of a sleepy drunkard, than to expose his true purpose.

            It had been two decades that they’d played this game. Two decades the hunter had stalked this pale stranger across the length and breadth of Sanctuary. He was nothing special upon first glance, a man past his prime. Where once he had been gifted with muscles, with strength, and with raw physical power, he now had little more than skin stretched over aching bones. Corrin allowed himself the smallest of smiles: the chase had worn him down.

            The man’s eyes glanced towards Corrin, shifty, beady like the rat he was. In their darkness Corrin saw it all again. For a moment, there was no tavern, no music, no drunken laughter. There was only fire.

_A boy stands over the bodies of his family. There are no tears; they’ve been spent already. The wetness of his cheeks causes the smoke in the air to cling to the stains of his tears, and his eyes are sore from the heat._

_A massive, iron-clad man towers over him on the back of a horse, his sword is stained with his family’s blood. The village rages in an inferno behind him, casting shadows black as night over him. Only the glimmer of his eyes filter through, full of malice, of hate, of a darkness that pierces the soul. Other figures move through the flames, shouting at one another, their voices seeming lifetimes away from the boy._

_The armored man’s blade leaves the boy’s vision. The horses stamp off. He’s alone now, shivering despite the heat. There was only fire._

            “Got something you want to say?” Corrin blinked back to the here, and the now. He inwardly cursed his lapse in focus. The pain and the fear he felt were there, but the hunter buried them. Standing, Corrin reached into his jerkin with the thick leather glove of his right hand, snapping free the vial he had carried for so long, and so far. He raised his head, letting the burning of his eyes lock with the dead evil of the other man’s.

            The man jolted upright, pulled back like he wanted to scream. Corrin squeezed his fist, two decades of hate forging his fingers to steel as he threw a punch. There was the faintest crunch of glass, a boiling hiss as the vial’s acid slipped between the leather fingers, and a howl of pain.

            The other patrons were in chaos. Some flew out the door, others cowered in their chairs or behind pieces of wayward furniture. Those few who dared to stand couldn’t bring themselves to strike out against the monster with the burning orange eyes.

            Corrin leaned down beside the man, screaming turning to gurgling as his skin sloughed off in wet clumps, the flesh beneath bubbling away. Staring down at the man that had taken away everything from him, the hunter answered the man’s final question.

            “No one escapes the hunters.”


End file.
